


Get Rickt

by muffinrag



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Latine!Rick, M/M, Trans Character, Trans!Rick, Young Rick, Young Stan, he's Latine and I will fight anyone who says otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffinrag/pseuds/muffinrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan tears into Las Vegas late one night, furious, on the run after being kicked out of Utah. While looking for a place to park and sleep, he finds a run-down little restaraunt that conceals a fight club. He drops in to fight and relieve some anger/stress, and notices the hot, blue-haired guitarist who's providing live music.</p><p>Rick is a young, successful doctor who spends his nights shredding in shitty joints. He's playing in a fight club when he notices a new fighter noticing him. Things take a turn when the club is busted and the hot fighter gets shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Rickt

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a quick AU sort of thing based off a prompt found online. I'm going to say straight up that I have no idea how fight clubs work, and I've never been to Las Vegas. Also I'm not sure how hospitals work so that's all pretty sketchy too. I did little to no editing. I just punched it out. On that note, it's probably a little out of character, but I'm not likely to fix it, ever, so whatever. Enjoy what you're getting, haha.
> 
> Also, because I love to shove my headcanons on the world, Rick is Latine and transgender.

Stanley screams into Las Vegas well past midnight, tires practically smoking on the cold asphalt, engine snarling with the effort. His heart is threatening to leap from his chest. His fingers are cramping on the gearshift. He’d lost the cops long ago, but his seething anger kept him speeding down the dark roads until he hit the city, slamming into the mess of lights and roads with the painful, boiling fury in his chest still frothing.

Once in the city, he forces himself to take it down a notch. He’s nearly out of gas and can’t afford to get caught in another chase. They’d run him down, and prison isn’t something he wants to do right now.

Kicked out of Utah. The one fucking state he thought he might be able to make it in. Utah’s never banned anybody before, but he supposes that that’s just him: Stanley fucking Pines, making history.

He drags himself off the freeway as the gas needle drops to “empty.” As much as he’d like to, he can’t drive forever.

At a gas station just off the freeway, he fills the Stanleymobile. Then, deciding that he probably should find a place to crash for the night, he drives farther into the city. A Sears parking lot would do. It’s not like he’s got money for a motel.

His frustration starts to ramp up again as he drives. It’s a big fucking city, there’s got to be at least one Sears.

Lights catch his eye. He’s in a cramped, dirty corner of downtown – he has no idea how to get around this city. The tall buildings are packed together like children’s blocks in a box, but there’s one tiny place tucked practically in an alley. The lights flash the word Jim’s Dogs. It’s shitty, and worn down, and has an all-too familiar look.

On the opposite side of the cramped street is a parking strip. Technically it’s thirty-minute parking, but Stanley tucks his car into a spot. If he gets a ticket he’ll just leave town. He’s got fake plates – the real ones are tucked under the passenger seat. They can’t track him. And if they put a boot on his car, well. He’s removed more than one of those.

He tugs his coat on and pulls the hood up, then walks across the street and into Jim’s Dogs.

“Hey, kiddo,” a man just inside the door growls. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Stan pushes his hood back and folds his arms across his chest. It’s difficult to look intimidating when you’re 5’5”, but he’s not afraid of this guy. They’re all the same.

“Just drifting. Looking for some sport.”

The guy raises an eyebrow. “Sport?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like a fucking cop?” Stan tries to bite back his annoyance. “I just wanna punch some shit, man.”

The man examines him a second more, then shrugs. “Go in, head straight to the back of the restaurant. The door’s on the right, tucked behind the bar.”

Without a word, Stan walks past him. The “restaurant” is nothing more than a few tables and a counter with a bar and tiny, open kitchen. It’s trashy, stained, and probably violates every single food safety code there is. He’s seen better covers, and he’s surprised that the cops haven’t taken this place down yet.

He’s pleased, though. The shittier the place, the more violent the competition.

He finds the door and walks down a tiny staircase. The basement opens up into a relatively spacious room, badly lit by harsh blue fluorescent lights, with a raised ring in the center. The floor is filled with yelling men, exchanging bets and body odor as the fight progresses. In the far corner, there’s a live band playing some screaming, metallic soundtrack. For a moment, Stan pauses on the stairs, watching the two men in the ring fight. A tiny grin flits across his lips, and he tugs his tape out of his pocket. This is his element.

With skilled precision, he wraps his hands and wrists in the tape, moving across the floor towards the ring. Most of the people ignore him. The thick mass of bodies reeks, and it moves in unpredictable ways, shoving and bumping him. Eventually, he makes it to the stairs of the ring, and, tucking his tape into his pocket, he leans close to the ringmaster and speaks with him for a moment. The man raises an eyebrow, but nods.

“Sure. This fight’s almost over, and then you can go on. But I’ve gotta warn you about the other guy.”

Stan shrugs his coat off and kicks it under the corner of the ring. “I can handle him.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

Annoyance flits across Stan’s face. People always assume he’s younger than he is because of his height. Constantly being mistook for a teenager gets frustrating once you hit twenty-eight.

With a roar of the crowds, the current fight comes to a close. The winner walks off, victorious, and the loser is dragged off and taken somewhere to recuperate.

“You’re on,” the ringmaster snaps.

Stan cracks his knuckles and climbs the stairs. In the opposite corner, his opponent, a huge man, stretches and pumps his fist in the air. The crowd screams – he must be a fan favourite. His blazing, deep-set eyes turn on Stanley and he gives a ruthless grin.

“You’re a little out of my weight class,” Stanley mumbles under his breath.

Only a little, though.

The florescent lights glow off the man’s skin, showcasing his dozens of tattoos and the bulge and ripple of his muscle. Stan eyes him warily, standing still for the moment. He can feel the hot anger still pulsing inside his chest.

They step to the center of the ring and face each other. Surprisingly, the other guy is only about six inches taller than Stan. He’ll be able to reach his face just fine, but it’s not going to be an easy fight.

A smile twists its way onto Stan’s lips. “Just the way I like it,” he growls.

Startled, the other man blinks at Stanley, then glances back just as the whistle shrieks. The entire room erupts as Stan slams a fist into the other man’s neck, just below the ear, hitting the pressure point there. His other fist follows, plowing into the guy’s solar plexus. He doubles over and stumbles back. Stanley stalks around him.

“Come on,” he growls. “Fucking fight me.”

His dark eyes snap up to Stan, furious, and Stan wonders if he heard that through the din. Either way, he straightens up and comes at Stan.

The room pulses, throbbing with the shredding music and the howls of excited onlookers as the fight lurches into full throttle. The fluorescent lights flicker. Stan can feel his entire body, as though every square inch of him is on fire; his vision as sharp and clear as it can be considering his bad eyes. Everything is pushed from his mind as he ducks and dodges, blocks, throws his fists and knees.

It’s not quite like boxing, but it’s close enough.

His back slams into the corner of the ring, and he pauses a moment, chest heaving, teeth gritted. His opponent takes a moment to laugh and taunt him.

The guitarist of the band catches his eye. He blinks and stares at the wiry, brown-skinned man with sky blue hair. The music falters briefly as his gaze is noticed. The guitarist stares at him, then flashes a smirk and rips a screaming note from his instrument, throwing his head forward. There’s something wild and strange about him, and Stan finds that his smirk has tied his stomach in knots.

A yell drags him back into the fight. Somebody is shoving him from behind, trying to push him back into the fight. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the sweat dripping into his eyes and the taste of blood in his mouth.

He straightens up and raises his fists.

A gunshot rips through the air, shattering one of the lights. The yells turn from excitement to horror, and he hears someone scream “COPS!”

His opponent doesn’t give him a second glance – he leaps from the ring and disappears into the crowd. Stanley whips around just in time to see cops flooding down the stairs, guns raised. Panic pulses through him, but before he can move, a bullet hits him in the shoulder, then the leg, then the stomach. His adrenaline is so pumped that he doesn’t collapse for a moment, but then a taser hits him and he falls to the ground, screaming and writhing.

The lights flicker again.

After a second, the taser retracts, leaving him stunned. He uncurls his body and tries to drag himself to the edge of the ring, but his vision is blurring over and there are big black spots encroaching. He’s been tased enough to know that he’s not going to be going anywhere for at least a few minutes, and he’s been shot enough to know that he’s probably going to pass out from pain within a couple minutes.

A figure leaps up beside him and flips him onto his back. Deft fingers move over his body, checking the wounds. He squints, trying to see who it is, but there’s too much black running across his vision.

________________________________________________________________________________

Rick’s fingers dance over his guitar strings, pulling strange, screeching noises from it. Christ, it is good to be here. The hospital is so fucking stuffy. It’s good to let go, even if it is at a shitty place like this. And it’s nice to see Birdperson and Squanchy again. Ever since he started at the hospital, he’s been seeing less and less of his friends. They have bigger things to do. A war to fight.

He can’t ignore the war much longer. He has to help.

But for tonight, he can let that go, and just shred for some manic violence-addicted idiots.

Curious, he lets his gaze wander up to the ring. There’s the Bull, of course. His opponent, however, Rick doesn’t recognize. He’s leaning in the corner at the moment, panting, red-faced, bleeding from his lip. He’s staring right at Rick.

For a second, Rick is baffled, distracted. His fingers slide to a halt as his eyes, inevitably, look the other man up and down, lingering on his built upper body, his enormous shoulders, his tiny waist and hips.

Christ, that is one handsome devil.

A smirk slips across Rick’s face as he slams back into the music, throwing in a headbang for good measure.

I know who I’m fucking tonight.

Well, I know who I wish I would be fucking tonight, anyway.

Not thirty seconds later, he hears a gunshot. His eyes snap open, and he looks up at the stairs, terror punching him right in the gut. A bust. Fuck.

“Not tonight,” he exclaims in dismay. “God f-fucking damn it, why tonight?”

“Rick,” Birdperson says in his normal, deadly calm tone. “Squanchy and I should not be caught by the police on this planet. It would not bode well –”

“Yeah, yeah, you sh-shit!” Rick rips the portal gun out of the back of his pants and shoots it at the wall, then closes the swirling green vortex after his friends leap through it.

Whipping back around, he sees that the new guy, the boxer, has collapsed on the ring. He must not have known to jump off immediately. The coppers always shoot the fighters first. Rick shoves his way through the crowd, not really thinking about it, and clambers onto the ring. Someone yells at him, but he ignores them, flipping the boxer onto his back and quickly examining his wounds. There are three – shoulder, leg, stomach. A quick examination lets Rick know that they’re non-fatal, as long as he can get the man to a hospital immediately.

A cop presses a gun to Rick’s head, and Rick puts his hands up.

“Hey, hey man, I j-just p-play the music, okay? Th-they hired me to d-do a g-gig. I-I’m not involved.”

“Then scat.”

“I gotta take him with me,” Rick says, nodding at the boxer.

The cop snarls. “Absolutely not.”

Rick shakes his head. “This guy’s just a one-nighter. Not involved in th-the club. Trust me, you’ll g-get nothing out of taking him in. The ones you want…” Rick points. “Th-that’s the ringmaster, a-and that’s the guy who owns this building, and that’s the lead fighter.”

For a moment, the cop hesitates, then says, “Fine, you can take him. But get out of here right fucking now.”

“Thank you,” Rick says, dragging the boxer upright.

The cop grunts and jumps off the ring.

“F-fuck, man, you’re heavy,” Rick grumbles. “And short.”

He groans. “Sorry.”

“Help me out h-here. I got us free pass out of here b-b-but we gotta move fast.”

Rick drags him, barely conscious, through the crowds and up the stairs. Once they’re out on the street, he glances left and right, unsure what to do. He doesn’t have a way to transport them to a hospital. He really didn’t think this through.

“M’car…” the man mumbles. “That’s m’car.” He points.

“Thank god,” Rick mutters, dragging him over to it. “Where are the keys?”

He slumps against the side of the car. “My jacket. I shoved it under the ring.”

Rick lets out an exasperated bark. “Of c-course you did!” he snaps. “Fine, stay here, don’t move, don’t get into t-trouble. I’ll get your fucking jacket.”

Leaving the man alone on the street with three bullet holes in his body isn’t Rick’s favourite idea, but it’s the only option at the moment. He slams back into the restaurant, heels clicking across the tile floor, and runs downstairs, where the bust is still in full swing. His thin frame is useful – he slips through the people, grabs the jacket from under the ring, and is almost back to the stairs when a cop stops him by shoving a gun into his neck.

“Where are you going, brown boy?”

“C-Christ, are you really going to racially stereot-type me now?”

“Nobody leaves,” the cop growls, pushing the gun harder into Rick’s jugular.

His whole body is thrumming with fear. Rick puts his hands up and backs away slowly. “Man, I-I’m sorry, I was just here to play m-music, man. I-I was hired off-b-books for the gig, okay? Look, I-I, I can point out some b-big shots if you want…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Rick hesitates, then turns away from the cop as though he’s going to walk back into the crowd. Then, before the cop can catch him, he whips around and shoots up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Below, the cop yells, and bullets hit the stairwell around him, sending plumes of dust and shattered plaster into the air. A bullet scrapes his arm as he leaps out the door. Without breaking step, he skids around the counter and bursts out the front doors.

He slams into the side of the car and unlocks it with shaking hands, then drags the man around and shoves him in the passenger seat. A cop runs out the door just as Rick slides into the driver seat. He wrenches the key in the ignition and jerks on the stick shift, not 100% sure what he’s doing. He hasn’t driven a car in years. Living in Vegas, he’d just started walking and taking public transport.

The car screeches backwards, then leaps forward down the road. A siren wails behind them.

“You’re fucking lucky I just filled my tank,” the boxer groans.

He’s clutching his stomach, and Rick glances at him nervously. Trying to keep his eyes on the road, he rips off his black vest and shoves it at him. “Wad th-that up and p-press it on the wound,” he directs. “P-push as hard as you can. You have to keep pressure on it or you’ll b-bleed out before I can get you to a hospital.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name, man?”

“Stanley.” He hisses in pain. “Fuck.”

Rick glances at him nervously. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been shot three fucking times. I think that answer’s pretty obvious.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you… are you that guy who was playing the guitar?” Stanley asks, squinting at him.

“Uh, yeah…?”

“Sorry, I just am in a state of like, constantly almost blacking out, so it’s kind of hard to see you.” He blinks hard. “I mean, otherwise I would have recognized you on the spot.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. How could I forget such a handsome face?”

Rick almost laughs. “N-now is not the time.”

They whip around a corner and onto a larger road. Rick’s eyes flash from mirror to mirror. He’s almost surprised that he hasn’t crashed and killed them yet. But the hospital is close, and he seems to have shaken the cops. He glances at Stanley again.

“K-keep pressure on that,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’ve been shot before,” he grunts. “I know the drill.”

“Christ, I hope you live to tell me th-that story,” Rick mutters.

He doesn’t respond. Rick looks over at him. He’s gone limp – passed out, finally, from the pain – or the blood loss. His front is soaked in blood.

Rick tears down the exit ramp and screeches into the hospital parking lot, right next to the ER. Technically nobody’s allowed to park here, but he works in this hospital. They’ll forgive him. He scrambles out of the car, runs to the passenger side, and drags Stanley out. A few nurses come running out to see what the ruckus is about, and immediately move to assist him. One of them looks up at him and gasps in surprise.

“Doctor Sanchez?”

He feels her eyes scan him, and is suddenly self-conscious of what he’s wearing – ripped black jeans that sit low on his hips, a belt with a skull buckle, six-inch blue stilettos, and a tank top with a neckline that plunges low enough that his belly button is showing.

“Th-this man needs immediate medical attention,” Rick snaps, letting the other nurse take Stanley. “Take him d-directly into an operating room. I-I’ll take care of it myself. And you,” he says to a third nurse, holding out the car keys. “Park the vehicle and bring me the keys. And if I find anything missing from that car,” he growls, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt, “I’ll ruin your f-fucking career, I swear to Christ.”

The man, terrified, nods and runs to the car.

“I’m going to clean up,” Rick growls to the nurses carrying Stanley. “I’ll be th-there in a few minutes. You take good care of him, you hear me?”

“Of course, Doctor Sanchez.”

They run towards the ER door, dragging Stan’s limp body. Rick walks to the front door, throws them open, and strides in.

“I’m sorry, sir,” says a startled nurse. “Can I help you?”

“Not at all.” He keeps walking towards the front desk, stilettos clicking rhythmically.

“Sir, this is a hospital. You can’t…”

Ignoring him, Rick steps up to the reception desk. “Heidi, do you have a spare lab coat? Also, would you be a d-doll and clock me in?”

The receptionist glances up at him, raises an eyebrow, pulls a lab coat from under her desk and tosses it to him. “There you are, Doctor Sanchez. Please remember to wash your hands.”

“Considering where I-I’ve spent the night, I should probably shower, but you know. There are lives to be saved!”

He throws on the lab coat and walks away, leaving Heidi to explain to the shocked nurse. She only knows because she bar hops on weekends, and she’d caught him performing once. Ever since then, it had become a bit of a running joke between them.

He steps into a bathroom and washes his hands, arms, and face. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do. He doesn’t really have time to sanitize the rest of his body.

After patting his face dry, he glances in the mirror. His hair is still gelled into a sweep to the side, and now his eyeliner is running, due to the water. Annoyed, he gives up and runs to the operating room. When he gets there, the nurses have just finished setting up. He pulls on a pair of gloves and grabs the tray of tools.

“Let’s g-get started, bitches,” he mutters, kicking off his heels. They skitter across the floor, drawing baffled glances from both nurses.

He’s going to be the mockery of the hospital staff after this.

The bullet in his leg and shoulder prove easy enough to remove, but the one in his stomach is messy. Five hours later, though, Stanley’s vitals are stable and his wounds are cleaned and stitched. Rick peels off his bloodied gloves and drops them in the trash, then drags a chair over next to the operating table and sinks onto it, staring at him.

It hits him that he just risked his life and slaughtered his reputation at the hospital in order to save this virtual stranger.

God, though, he’s pretty.

Except for that fucking mullet. That will have to go.

The door opens and Heidi walks in.

“Doctor Sanchez?”

“Yes, Heidi?”

“Is everything alright? How is the patient doing?”

“He’s stable.”

“I’ve got a room ready for him.”

Rick looks up at her and smiles faintly. “Heidi, you are a life saver.”

She smiles back. “No, Doctor, that’s your job.” She walks up next to him and looks down at Stanley. “How do you know him?”

“I-I was playing in an underground boxing club,” he says, staring at Stanley’s face. “He was one of the fighters. I’ve never seen him before, but when th-the club was busted and he got shot, I couldn’t just let him die.”

“Well, he’s certainly easy on the eyes.”

Rick glances up at her, noting her sly expression. “Heidi…”

“Don’t worry about it, boss. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. I keep plenty of your secrets.”

“Not anymore.”

She chuckles. “Well, Christ, it’s hard to keep your double life secret when you blow in here dressed like that.” She hooks a finger under his tank top. “I saw a couple of those nurses’ faces, though. I guarantee that at least two of the women are thirsting for you, and possibly one of the men, too.”

He shakes his head in exasperation and stands up. “Let’s just get him to his room.”

“I could set you up with him,” Heidi says. “He’s really cute, for a nurse.”

“I-I think I’ve got the dating thing covered, Heidi, th-thanks.”

She helps him transfer Stanley to a stretcher and pull him out of the operating room. “But I know this nurse. He’s super cool with everything, you know, even trans men.”

“Heidi, you need to stop. Right now.”

“I’m just saying, you know? The cute boxer whose life you saved might not be into you once he finds out that you’re not fully transitioned.”

“Christ, Heidi, how the f-fuck do you know so much about my life?” Rick hisses, eyes flashing around to see if there’s anybody nearby.

She shrugs. “I’m a receptionist. I know everything.”

He glares at her. “I expect you to keep quiet,” he growls. “I-I could lose my job if people found out th-that I’m trans.”

She gives a sloppy salute. “My lips are sealed. Although, Doctor, you’ve got a couple of scars there,” she gestures to his chest, “which may give you away. Oh, here’s his room.”

He snatches the key out of her hands. “I-I’ll handle it from here. Go back to your desk.”

Startled, she looks up at him. She acts like she’s about to retort, but his undisguised fury is enough to shut her up and send her scuttling away.

With a sigh of relief, he opens the door to the room and pushes the stretcher in. He transfers Stanley to the bed and hooks up the IV. Then he shoves the stretcher out into the hall, closes the door, and collapses into the armchair.

A few minutes pass, and a nurse steps in, holding Rick’s shoes and the keys to Stanley’s car.

“I thought you might want these, Doctor Sanchez.”

He raises an eyebrow. She's holding the heels gingerly, as though they might bite her. “Who d-dared you to bring those to me?”

She stutters, and he shakes his head.

“Just drop them by the door.”

The heels and keys clatter to the floor, and the nurse closes the door and flees. Rick groans and rubs his eyes, then stands up and walks into the bathroom. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at his body in the mirror.

Heidi is right. The scars from his top surgery are obvious.

Frustrated, he washes his face, scrubbing away the remainder of his smeared makeup. His double life seems embarrassing now. He has a job, a life, responsibilities. He can’t keep hanging onto the Flesh Curtains.

He runs his hands through his hair.

“C-Christ, Rick,” he growls. “Grow the fuck up.”

With a sigh, he walks back out into the room and looks at Stanley. Heidi’s words are needling at him. He hasn’t felt this vulnerable, this insecure, since he came out.

He sets the car keys on the table next to the bed, picks up his heels, and walks out of the room. He has to go home, change, shower, get some rest. He can come back and check on Stanley tomorrow.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Stanley blinks awake. The sun is glaring through the window, and he rustles around, dragging pillows over his face. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in his stomach, leg, and shoulder, and he vaguely recalls being shot and tased in the underground fight club. Past that, his memory is pretty blurry, though he’s pretty sure he was saved by that hot guitarist.

Which makes no sense whatsoever.

The door clicks open and footsteps approach across the floor.

“I brought you lunch.”

Stanley groans.

“Quite a mountain of pillows you’ve got there.”

“Fight me,” Stanley mumbles.

A chuckle escapes the tall, blue-haired figure. He moves Stanley’s pillows. “Maybe later.”

He checks Stanley’s vitals, then closes the shades on the windows and walks out.

Stanley sits up, and a groan of pain escapes him. He’d almost forgotten how much being shot hurts. But he’s starving and the nurse brought lunch, so he fights the pain, grabs the tray, and wolfs it down.

A few minutes later, a different nurse walks in. “How are you doing?” she asks brightly.

He moans and flops back down.

“Are you in much pain?”

“If hell is real, I am there,” he grumbles.

She chuckles. “Let me give you some more painkillers, then.”

“Who was that other nurse who was just in here?”

“Oh, that was Doctor Sanchez.”

He squints at the ceiling. “I thought Doctors didn’t do mundane stuff like take vitals.”

She moves around, apparently hooking him up to some painkillers. “Normally they don’t, but Doctor Sanchez has taken a peculiar interest in you. He’s the one who brought you in late last night and operated on you. I suppose he’s attached.”

“Oh.”

She leaves.

If that’s true, then there’s no way it was the guitarist who saved his ass. Why would a doctor spend his nights playing guitar in shitty, run-down fight clubs?

Why would a doctor be in a shitty, run-down fight club at all?

It doesn’t add up.

The morphine hits him.

Time passes in a vague daze. After a while, the man, Doctor Sanchez, comes back in.

Stanley wants to say something to him, but all he manages is to say, “Fight me,” again, accompanied by a burst of coughing. The doctor smiles and puts a hand on Stanley’s forehead.

“I won’t fight you; you’d win.”

As the doctor checks his vitals again, Stanley becomes aware that he’s drooling and staring. The two may be connected, though Stanley hopes the drool is caused by the morphine and not the lean figure lightly outlined by the dim light coming through the window blinds.

He glances down at Stanley. “You alright there?”

Stanley sniffles and snuggles into his pillow and, surly, mutters, “Fight me.”

“If you insist.” The doctor rearranges a couple of pillows and walks back out.

He doesn’t come back for the rest of Stanley’s stay at the hospital, which ends up being about two weeks. When they finally release him, he walks down to the reception desk and the lady there gives him his car keys and clothes.

“We washed and bleached them for you,” she says.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, looking down at the bloodstained shirt and pants.

“Is there anything you need?”

He blinks. “Yeah, um, is Doctor Sanchez here?”

She glances down at her computer. “No, but he did leave something for you.” She picks something up off her desk and holds it over the counter.

He takes the slip of paper from her. It’s a phone number, preceded by the words, “Fight me?”

A smile tugs at his lips. He sighs and tucks the paper in his pocket, knowing that he’ll never be able to call it. He doesn’t have a phone.

“Thanks,” he tells the receptionist.

He changes in the bathroom and walks out to the parking lot. He has to wander around for a while before finally finding his car, and when he does, there’s a tall, skinny man with a shock of bright blue, spiky hair sitting on the hood.

Stan’s heart skips a beat, but he stays cool. “You’re going to dent my car.”

“Hardly.” He slides off. “I-I don’t weigh much. Besides, I repaired the damage I did, and took the liberty of making a few subtle improvements.” He pats the car’s hood. “It’ll run for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks,” Stanley says, bewildered but smiling.

The doctor walks around and extends his hand. He’s a full head taller than Stan.

“The n-name’s Rick Sanchez.”

Stan takes his hand and shakes it. “Stanley Pines.”

“Well, now that we’ve formally met, I-I just have to ask. Will you go out with me, Stanley Pines?”

“I don’t see why not,” Stan says with a grin. “Though I have to ask, why’d you leave your number if you were just going to do this?”

“Well, I-I left my number, then I decided I couldn’t wait for you to call. I mean, Christ, I’ve waited long enough, and besides, your car looked like you lived in it, so I thought, well, what if he doesn’t have a phone? I mean, god, I-I can’t in good conscience pass up the opportunity to t-t-take this guy on a date, so I should probably make more of an effort.”

Stan’s grin widens. “Good call. I don’t have a phone and wouldn’t have called.”

“I’m glad I did this, then.” Rick glances at the ground. “So, are you free t-tonight?”

“I’m always free.”

Rick grins. “Well, if you’ll drive, I’ll pay for dinner.”

“Sounds good to me.” Stan opens the driver’s door. “Get in.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Rick kicks his apartment door shut behind him as he shoves Stanley through.

“Better lock that shit,” Stanley says.

“Nobody ever comes in my apartment,” Rick mumbles, spreading kisses over Stanley’s face.

“Humour me,” Stanley replies. “I’m a little paranoid.”

Rick whips around and locks the door, then returns to kissing Stanley. To his surprise, Stanley pushes him against the door, and almost automatically, Rick slides down so that he’s shorter. Stanley grins and puts his hands on either side of Rick, then leans in and kisses him once, twice, and then long and slow.

“Where’s your fucking room?” he growls into Rick’s lips. “If you don’t show me to a bed, I’m going to fuck you right here in this entryway.”

Rick’s stomach clenches.

“Stanley…”

Surprised at his tone, Stanley straightens up and takes a step back. “What is it? Are you okay?”

Rick grinds the palm of his hand into his eye, frustrated with himself. “M-maybe you shouldn’t be doing st-strenuous things so soon after y-you’ve b-been injured.”

“It’s been two weeks. I feel fine. Look, Rick, if you don’t want to, it’s okay –”

“I-it’s not that I-I d-don’t want to, it’s j-just…” Rick bites down on his tongue, frustrated at the way his stutter gets worse when he’s nervous. “I-I just d-don’t know if I-I’m w-what you want.”

Stanley stares at him for a moment, then says, “Let’s get out of the entryway.”

Rick pushes himself off the door and walks down the hall. “The k-kitchen’s this way.”

Stanley follows him and stands in the threshold of the kitchen, watching him move around and grab things out of the cupboards and fridge. Before Rick knows what he’s really doing, he has three pans on the stove.

“Rick, we just ate,” Stanley says, and there’s a hint of laughter in his voice.

“S-sorry. I-I cook when I-I’m upset. Used to get high off my ass, b-but ever since I st-tarted at the hospital, that hasn’t r-really been an option.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Stanley walks over and leans on the counter next to the stove. “We all have our coping mechanisms. We all have our shit. I have my fair share, so I generally try to not judge.”

A small smile crosses Rick’s mouth. He moves around, deftly maneuvering the pots and foodstuffs while Stanley watches. After a few minutes, he goes to test the sauce, but his hands are shaking so badly that he drops the spoon in the saucepan and splatters it everywhere. A gasp escapes him, and as he scrambles to clean it up, he can feel tears coming.

Stanley grabs his hands and holds them. His hands completely engulf Rick’s, and the feeling is comforting.

“Rick, what’s wrong?”

“I’m trans,” he blurts. “I-I’m trans and I got t-top surgery but I still haven’t g-g-gotten bottom surgery and I-I know you’re g-gay so you p-probably d-don’t want to screw me and I-I’m sorry I’m sorry I-I should have t-t-told you b-but I just wanted t-to go out with you so b-badly and –”

Stanley puts a finger on his lips, quieting him.

“Rick,” he whispers, gazing up at him. “I’m pansexual. I don’t give a shit.”

For a moment, Rick is silent, too stunned to speak. Then relief floods his entire body. “Oh my god. Oh my god,” he whispers, dropping his head onto Stanley’s shoulder. “How the f-fuck are you so fucking perfect. How. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“You saved my life, asshole. Now finish your food and let’s have some fucking sex.”

Now with steady hands, Rick whips out the food, finishes it, and packages it up to store in the fridge. As he closes the fridge, Stanley steps up behind him, pressing one massive hand on his stomach. Rick melts at the touch and turns around, sinking again so that he’s at a more accessible height. Stan doesn’t kiss him for a moment, but just stares at him, rubbing his thumb over Rick’s temple. Rick watches his eyes, feeling his insides melt away as Stanley gazes at him.

“You are a work of art,” he whispers at last, and leans in to press his lips gently against Rick’s.

“Nobody has ever admired me l-like that before,” Rick breathes.

“They’re missing out.”

Stan moves his lips along Rick’s jaw and onto his neck, and Rick’s head drops back onto the fridge. A soft moan escapes him.

“Now, as I was saying,” Stanley murmurs, his breath hot on Rick’s neck, “if you don’t show me to a bed I’m going to fuck you right here. On your kitchen floor.” He pauses. “Your spacious kitchen floor. Jesus, how rich are you?”

Rick chuckles. “I’m a doctor,” he says, straightening up and grabbing Stanley’s hand. “I make pretty good money.”

Stanley lets Rick lead him to the bedroom. It’s spacious, too, dimly lit by a lava lamp and the sunset outside. Rick doesn’t give Stanley much time to examine the space, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. Stan grins into the kiss and stands up on his tiptoes to better reach as his hands wander to Rick’s shoulders and push his lab coat off. Rick shrugs out of it, letting it fall on the floor, then tugs at Stanley’s shirt, backing up slowly. Stanley pushes him right into the edge of his bed, and he falls onto it and stares up in awe as Stanley strips his shirt off, exposing his thick, dark chest hair. He’s a little pudgy, but Rick saw him fight, and knows that underneath that padding he’s fucking ripped.

“What’s that glazed look for, hm?” Stanley asks, stepping up to the edge of the bed, so his hips are resting right against Rick’s. A devilish smile spreads across his face as Rick moans.

“You are driving me f-fucking crazy.”

“Good.” Stanley leans down and kisses him.

Rick scoots backwards, and Stanley follows him, climbing onto the bed, that impossibly hot smile still plastered across his face. The blankets are soft and cool against Rick’s back, and he stares up at Stanley, still struck that this person, this incredibly beautiful person… he props himself up on his elbow and kisses Stanley, holding his face in one hand. Stanley takes the opportunity to run his hands up Rick’s shirt, over his chest. His hands are huge, god, and Rick finds himself breathless as Stanley peels his shirt off, exposing his skinny chest.

Despite Stanley’s reassurances, Rick finds himself worrying about the scars on his chest, and his stomach tightens nervously as Stanley runs his hands and eyes over Rick’s body. His thumbs linger over the scars, then he leans down and kisses each of them before returning his lips to Rick’s.

“You are perfect,” Stanley whispers.

“Hardly,” Rick murmurs. “I’m afraid you’ve got me solidly beat when it comes to perfection.”

Stanley chuckles, then pulls back and meets Rick’s eyes. His gaze is serious. “Look, I want you to know that you can ask to stop at any time, okay? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You just say the word and we’ll stop.”

“God, Stanley,” Rick groans, lifting his hips off the bed. “I just want you to fuck me. Are you always like this with your one-night-stands?”

“I generally make an attempt at basic human decency,” Stan chuckles, stroking Rick’s face. “Especially if I like the other person a lot.” He leans down close to Rick’s ear. “Especially if I’m considering a second date.”

Rick blinks in surprise.

A second date?

Suddenly, Stanley sinks his teeth into Rick’s neck and slides a hand down his stomach, under the waistband of his pants. Rick gasps, grasping at handfuls of the quilt as Stanley undoes his pants and slips his fingers down into Rick’s hot, soaking body. That devilish grin sneaks across his face again, and he spreads kisses down Rick’s chest, hesitating over his happy trail as he slides Rick’s pants down his legs. Rick wriggles out of his shoes and kicks his pants off as Stanley’s fingertips trail over his hips and thighs. The light, ticklish pressure sends shivers leaping up Rick’s spine. Stanley plants kisses along the insides of Rick’s thighs, hovering over his stretch marks and dark spots – remnants from his teenage years, when his body had been thick and curvy.

Finally, Stanley buries his face right where Rick wants it. A cry of delight escapes him as Stanley sinks a pair of fingers deep inside of him, tongue moving expertly. His eyes meet Rick’s, and Rick can’t help but watch him as he eats him out.

“Oh, god, Stanley,” he moans. “That’s f-fucking good.”

Stanley’s eyes smirk at him, and he plunges his fingers deeper. Rick’s head snaps back as he cries out, gasping. A moment later, Stanley’s lips are on his again, and he can taste himself in Stanley’s mouth, sweet and salty. Desperate now, he reaches down and fumbles with the Stanley’s pants, then pushes them down. Stanley wriggles out of them and kicks them away without breaking the kiss, while Rick wraps a hand around him.

Surprise flashes through Rick when he can’t wrap his hand all the way around. He looks down and his jaw drops.

“Jesus Christ, Stanley!”

“What?” he growls, grinning.

He’s at least as big around as a can of beer. Rick stutters.

“I-I’m not sure you’re going to fit.”

“Yeah?” Stanley’s voice is a low, seductive rumble. “You wanna try?”

“F-fuck, yes. We only live once.”

Stanley grins and flips them over, so he’s lying on his back. He grabs Rick’s hips and helps him center himself. Rick squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingernails into Stanley’s chest, biting his lip hard as he sinks down.

“You alright, Rick?”

“Yeah, just… just fucking shove it in there.”

Stanley’s hands tighten on Rick’s hips and he jerks him down. Rick’s eyes snap open and he yelps. Stanley winces as his fingernails draw blood.

“Holy shit,” Rick groans, breathless, wide-eyed.

“Okay?”

“Okay is an understatement. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so fucking amazing.”

“Just out of curiosity… are you, like, infertile?” Stanley asks. “Because if you aren’t, we should probably have a condom.”

“Oh, now you ask,” Rick grunts. “But I-I actually had ovarian cancer and had to get them both removed when I was twenty-three, so we’re good to fucking go. Trust me, I would have brought it up if it had been a problem.” He lifts his hips slightly, feeling Stanley inside of him, feeling his own body clench around him, almost unable to think straight. “We are good,” he growls.

Stanley groans as Rick moves up and down, slowly at first as he gets used to it, then faster. His fingernails are still buried in Stanley’s chest, but he doesn’t seem to mind the pain or the blood trickling along his skin. He locks eye contact with Rick, body moving up and down like waves, like the ocean, like a storm. Rick loves the eye contact, relishes it as he rides Stanley with all the speed and strength he can muster. He watches in delight as Stanley’s face contorts in pure pleasure, as he lets out tiny gasps until, suddenly, his fingers tighten on Rick’s hips – Jesus, that’s going to leave bruises – and he cries out. Rick grunts as he feels heat flood his insides.

For a moment, they sit still like that as Stanley rides out his orgasm. Then Rick runs his hands along Stanley’s arms and lifts his hands off his hips, entwining their fingers. Pushing his hands up above his head, Rick leans down and kisses Stanley softly. Stanley moans and his eyes – dark, luscious brown – flutter open, to stare into Rick’s.

“So,” he mumbles. “About that second date.”

Rick chuckles. “You’re gonna ask me out while you’ve still got your dick inside of me?”

“Anything to get you to say yes.”

For a moment, Rick almost says no. He can’t afford a relationship right now. Not with the intergalactic war looming. He’s lost so many of his friends already, and he can’t imagine what it would feel like to lose Stanley, too.

But then, maybe he could just leave Stanley out of it. Protect him.

His big, dark eyes are still watching Rick.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that a second date is a go,” Rick says with a grin.

Stanley’s eyes light up. “Good,” he says, and Rick can hear the happiness in his voice. For a minute, he lets himself feel that happiness.

With a grunt, he lifts himself off of Stanley’s dick and tumbles off the bed, grabbing at the edge of the mattress to keep from falling down.

“I’m going to go clean up,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

He stumbles to the door of his bathroom. He can already feel the soreness setting in. Work tomorrow is not going to be fun.

In the bathroom, he closes the door and flips on the light, blinking in the blinding white for a moment. He leans on the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself. He can’t remember the last time he’d been fucked so well.

His eyes flutter up to his reflection in the mirror.

There he is: Rick Sanchez, successful doctor in Las Vegas, despite being Lantine and transgender. Rick Sanchez, guitarist for the shitty heavy metal band The Flesh Curtains. Rick Sanchez, interdimensional traveler, wanted in sixty dimensions for crimes against the Galactic Republic. Rick Sanchez, who has a second date with an incredibly attractive and possibly homeless boxer with an ambiguous and questionable past.

He ignores the twist in his stomach and the voice in the back of his mind saying that he shouldn’t let himself get into a relationship. What does the voice in the back of his mind know, anyway? Stanley makes him happy. He could really have something.

He could be happy.

With a deep sigh, he cleans up, takes a piss, and walks back into the room. Stanley lifts up the blankets for him, and he climbs in and snuggles up against him.

What are you doing to me, Stanley Pines?

What am I doing to myself?


End file.
